Where Do The Children Play?
by Cairnsy
Summary: It is often the children who are forgotten during war, their tales the ones that go untold. Percy Weasley. Oliver Wood. Marcus Flint. Three such children whose lives were changed irreversibly by the first war against Voldemort, a war that they were not on
1. Percy Weasley

Body **Where do the Children Play?**

Summary: It is often the children who are forgotten during war, their tales the ones that go untold. Percy Weasley. Oliver Wood. Marcus Flint. Three such children whose lives were changed irreversibly by the first war against Voldemort, a war that they were not only witness to, but unwilling participants of. Here are their stories. 

Chapter One - Percy Weasley. 

Because we are all products of our childhood 

He despised the stars. Their unbridled freedom to roam unrestrained through the jet-black night fuelled a green fire within him, their utter carelessness a stark mockery of the rigors of necessity that everyone else had to conform to. 

Why should the stars be free, when no one else was? 

It puzzled him, the way poets wrote stars as a lover's confidant, a hope for brighter days to come. Such ideals seemed so false, so pretentious. The stars were not there as literally wonders, but to taunt them of a past that he himself had never known. 

Ma told him that he thought too much, read too much. But what else was there to do? Every few months they were whisked to a new safe house, a new temporary home. Each a contrast to the last, yet beneath it all, really the same. Empty, isolated, impersonal. 

And lonely. So very much lonely. Did stars ever get lonely? There looked to be so many of them, it seemed impossible. 

Percy stretched, gaze momentarily turned away from his nemesis as he studied the small room that had been 'home' for the last few weeks. The twins laid nestled together in an array of limbs so tangled that he couldn't tell where one 2 year old began and the other ended. Sleep did not elude them, for they were still children, ignorant of the world that was being spun around them. 

He however, was 5, and far too aware of what was going on around him. Ma and Pa tried to hide it from him, of course, yet there were few things one could keep from someone who was as inquisitive and prying as he was. 

There were times he wished he had listened at less doors, not overheard conversations that had clearly not been meant for him. Perhaps the nightmares would not have come so easily then. 

He shot a jealous glance at the twins, so like the stars. Always shining brightly, always together. Always with him on the outside, not quite understanding. He had never been able to understand their secret games, never been invited to join. Like Cassandra and Helenus they were joined, fated to rise together, doomed to fall from grace as one. 

Perhaps if Charlie hadn't joined Bill this year at Hogwarts, he would have had more friendlier companions than the many books Pa brought him. But no, Charlie and Bill were as inseparable as the twins, more so the Greek Achilles and Patroculus as opposed to the Trojan pair. Besides, they were so much older, so much ... more, than he would ever be. 

Two stars burning brightly themselves. He was merely a faded Ajax who could not come close to matching their brilliance. 

And who wanted to be Ajax? 

Bill had given him his treasured copy of the Iliad before he had returned to Hogwarts several months earlier. He could still remember how Ma had protested; saying that there was no way a 5 year old could handle such a book. Bill had looked at her in disbelief, and Percy had committed to memory what he had said next. 

"You can't be serious, mum! Percy ... Percy is brilliant! Beyond that! He reads everything - absorbs everything. I swear he's more intelligent than half the first years at Hogwarts! His knowledge is intense and vibrant - it should be fed, not starved because it is different to most 5 year olds." 

Bill had looked at him then, ruffling his hair as he smiled down at him. "You're special Percy, one day you're going to be the most intelligent boy at Hogwarts, I know it." 

And Percy had smiled back, sharing in the glow that was Bill, if only for a moment. Bill thought he was special - nothing else mattered. At 13, his older brother was everything he wanted to be, and the one he missed most. Not Charlie, and his obsession with something called Qwee-dish. Not his distant Pa, whose visits were infrequent and always rushed. Not even Ma, who seemed to spend all her time hushing baby Ronnie in some other room. 

Unlike everyone else, Bill thought *he* was special. Everyone loved the twins, and they all cooed over Ronnie, yet Bill was the only one who paid any attention to him. 

One part of Bill's statement confused him, however. Didn't *all* five year olds live like him? Surely he wasn't the only one who read endlessly to pass the dreary heaviness of time that seemed to hang like a dead weight over each day. What could they possibly do if they didn't read? Perhaps they each had their own twin to play with. 

He would ask Bill next time he visited. Bill would know, he concluded thoughtfully, glancing at the small clock that adorned the left wall, studying it intensely. Surely Ma should be asleep by now? But no, the clock still hadn't switched over from 'Mother resting' to 'Mother Sleeping'. Perhaps Ronnie was keeping her awake? He was only 3 months old, his baby brother. And noisy, very noisy. 

He almost let out a whoop of joy when the clock finally did tick over. Eagerly slipping on one of Charlie's old, patched jackets, he glanced over quickly at the twins to make sure they were still asleep before gently lifting the window, silently slipping out of it before closing it mutely behind him. As his feet softly landed on the pine needle clad ground below, a wide grin broke out on his usually calm face. 

Free. He was free. 

Without a moments hesitation he broke into a run, heading straight for the towering tree's that encircled the small clearing. Dodging and weaving, he alternated between prancing and neck breaking pace, sprinting as he frolicked in the dense forest, letting pure adrenaline take over. 

No restraints, no strict rules enforced by Ma. Why couldn't it always be like this? The thrill of danger *did* add an extra element to his nightly wonderings, Percy had to admit with a smile as he pulled up in front of a stream he had only discovered several days ago. There was something exhilarating about breaking the rules. He settled himself on the slightly damp grass near the edge of the stream, soaking in the quiet beauty of the moonlit glade - *his* glade. The gentle waves that lapped timidly seemed in no great rush to get to their destination, and Percy couldn't hide his envy. Not only did the stream know where it was going, it could take its time doing so. 

Even though time seemed to drag like a retreating shoreline, everything still seemed so rushed, so frantic. While the tide slowly went out, the waves still crashed kamikaze style onto the waiting beach. 

The waves here were far more relaxed and sensible. He would prefer to befriend them rather than the mean, cold stars ... 

His attention was so fixated on the ink black waves, he didn't at first hear the gentle whoosh of grass being crushed behind him. There had never been any reason to fear intrusion into their bland sanctuaries; some spell that Pa would cast always prevented that. 

"You shouldn't be out alone at this time of night, child," a singsong voice called from behind him, resulting in Percy quickly getting to his feet and spinning around. Involuntarily, he took several steps back, his sneakers soaking in the wet sediment of the stream bank. Curiosity of meeting someone unknown was quickly eaten by fear as he recognised the black robes, the vivid tattoo that seemed in such stark contrast to the pale, moonlight-bleached skin of the intruder. 

"I ... I'm not alone," he lied unconvincingly, eyes wide. Another step back, and this time the water sloshed easily over the top of his shoes. "My Ma ... Ma *and* Pa, they're ... they're close by!" The Death Eater chuckled, a harsh, deep sound that sends shivers down Percy's spine that has nothing to do with the ice-cold water. 

"You're mother is undoubtedly asleep at some safe house we have yet to pinpoint, your father well protected within the Ministry walls," The towering man broke off, growling. "The Ministry is as unbreachable as Hogwarts." 

"How ... how?!" Percy asked desperately, a tremble in his voice. "You shouldn't be able to - you *can't* find us! It's ... it's impossible! Ma said!" 

"Dear, dear Percy," The man mocked as he took a step closer, resulting in Percy backing up even more into the once friendly stream. Now it did little more than hold him prisoner. "The stream is very pretty, isn't it? So calm, serene? Must be a change from the usual rigours of being constantly on the run." The gentle tone confused Percy. 

"Yes," He replied, blinking confusingly at the other man. 

"So lovely, and so very much not in the area that magically protects your usual safe houses from even the most powerful of wizards," As Percy looked on in horror, a triumphant snarl formed on the other man's lips. 

No! NO! It must be! He thought desperately, glancing around the glade wildly. Of course it was within the boundaries of the spell, of course it was! 

"I should really thank you," The other man mused. "*Years* we have been hunting down your family, only to always come up with a blank canvas. You all simply disappeared - oh, we knew of the two at Hogwarts, but everyone there is untouchable. 

You're father *will* go down," He finished threateningly; dark promise_s_ laced into each word. "And that honour shall be mine." 

This wasn't happening, couldn't be happening ... 

"What do you think, Percy?" He asked with a fake smile. "Shall I hunt down your family and slaughter them, one-by-one? Rather Oedipus, don't you think? Kill the family, send the man who couldn't save them insane." 

"Hercules." Percy spoke up timidly. At the disgruntled glare from his capturer, he knew he should stop; yet panic caused him to babble on. "It was Hercules who was driven insane, not Oedipus." Hooded eyes looked at him in barely disguised surprise. 

"Intelligent child, aren't you?" He muttered softly, before turning back to the conversation. "So then, shall we go the route of *Hercules*? Or perhaps I should simply destroy you, leave your pretty carcass as a decaying warning to dear old dad?" He laughed at the horrified expression on the young child's face. "Come now, Percy! I could not have achieved this without your help! It is only fair you have a say in this!" He laughed again as two streaks of tears carved silent rivers down Percy's face. "Are you scared Percy?" He asked playfully. "Good. I wouldn't want it any other way." 

"Percy! Honey, where are you?!" The other man's eyes lit up with overzealous greed and excitement as the desperate voice of his Ma rang through the forest. The smile that had accompanied it dropped quickly when he heard several other voices join in, then several more. 

"Mama!" Percy cried, scanning the tree line desperately for any sign of his mother. Cursing, the Death Eater lunged at Percy, causing him to squeal in panic as he was pulled up into the man's arms, steal arms wrapping strongly around him as he tried to struggle out of the iron grip. 

"Mama!" He again sobbed, kicking, clawing - to no avail. 

"Percy!" The relief in the other woman's voice was evident as she suddenly appeared on the outskirts of the clearing, along with several others that Percy had never seen before. Hair flowing loosely around her face, she stopped short, fear radiating almost visually from her as she saw her child was not alone. 

"Lucius." The statement was short, dark. "Let go of my son, or else I guarantee your death will be one told around campfires for years to come." 

"Is that a *threat*, Molly dear?" Lucius replied softly. "For I do believe you are in no position to be issuing one," As if to prove his point, his arms tightened around Percy's chest, causing him to cry out in pain. 

"You do not want him, Lucius. He knows nothing - take me in his place." Gone was the fierce determination, in its place stood a desperate mother. 

"I must correct you there, Molly," Lucius responded with a malicious grin. "I believe that while like you, your husband would do anything to save his own child, that same level of risk would not be extended to you. Tell the Ministry henchmen to back off, or I *will* kill the child." 

With a low growl, she did so, much to Percy's terror. 

"No mama, no!" He begged, not understanding why she was backing off, leaving him. "Please Ma!" 

"I will hunt you down and kill you," his mother responded, eyes locked in hatred with the other man's. "I will spare you no mercy, no trial. By the time I am ready to finish you off, you will be pleading with me to kill you." 

"How ironic," Lucius mused. "I intended to say the same thing to your son." In a flash, he was gone, Percy with him. Molly launched herself at them too late, they had apparated long before she reached the spot they had only seconds ago been on. 

"Percy!" 

*** 

"Ma!" he sobbed, as the clearing and his mother suddenly disappeared before him, morphing into a darkened corridor of stone. With a cold casualness, Lucius dropped him to the ground, a small smirk forming at the grunt of pain it bought. With eyes laced with terror, the small boy looked up at the man from his place at his feet, slowly inching backwards in a half crawl. 

"Take him to one of the holding cells," Lucius spoke to a figure that seemed to have been bonded with the shadows. "I will call for him when he is desired." 

"A cell, Lucius?" The shadow hesitated, glancing over at him. "He's but a child - surely he could be kept else-" 

"The cells." The man growled, shooting a glare of disdain at Percy. "He is not a visitor, he is a prisoner. He shall be treated as such." Without any further comment, he spun on his heels, stalking off down the corridor. 

"Come child," the gruff voice spoke. Percy found that it *was* indeed a man, and not some terrible wispy monster as it separated itself from the shadows and stretched a long, pale hand down to help him up. Tall and wiry, he still rather *looked* like a shadow, with his black cloak and hair. Yet even the almost sympathetic voice could not force him to obey, he felt as though he had been frozen to the spot by an ice dragon. With a sigh that spoke of impatience, the man whisked him up into his arms, and balanced him on his right hip. The position was almost comforting, and Percy found himself unwillingly wrapping his legs around the thin waist, his short arms tightly squirming around the neck of this new man. 

If he buried his face in the dark cloak and sobbed bitter tears, his carrier made no comment of it. 

The slow march to what was to be his new home seemed to stretch an indian summer, yet at the same time the final destination was reached far too soon. Weak protests had little effect as this new man, his Shadow, disentangled his short limbs from his own, placing him gently on his feet inside a small room. 

Oh no, please no. 

The cell was devoid of *anything*, there was no bed, no mat. No light. Desperately he spun towards his newest companion, small fists grabbing at his cloak. 

"Please! Please don't leave me here!" Tears that had seemed to have dried up on the journey here found a new spring to bubble forth from. "I can't .. I don't .. please!" He didn't care that he was begging, or that his pleads were aimed at the man who had brought here in the first place. All he knew was that they could *not* leave him alone here. 

"The decision was not mine to make," came the emotionless reply. Forcefully detaching the hands that still grabbed his clock, the man turned his back on him and exited the room, closing the door behind him with a harsh click as he did so. 

The small light from the corridor that had momentarily cast the room in a sickly grey while it had still had access, disappeared the moment the door shut, causing a muted black to move in, and with it hidden demons that seemed to simply be biding their time before pouncing. Shivering, he slunk backwards until his back collided with the far wall. Letting his legs buckle under him, he brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly. 

The blackness wasn't closing in on him, those *weren't* demons dancing in the corner of the room, he wasn't afraid, he wasn't ... 

He lowered his head onto the top of his knees, and sobbed. 

*** 

"What do you mean, there is nothing we can do?!" The usually even-tempered Arthur Weasley roared, slamming a fist down on the table. "We give the bastard what he wants - *anything* he wants." 

"You know we can't do that, Arthur." The far too collected and calm Loriana Millers, Head of Defence replied. "War is a terrible thing, however at times sacrifices need to be made." 

"You are *not* going to sacrifice my son!" Molly Weasley growled dangerously from her place next to her husband. "You will do whatever is necessary to bring him back, or there will be hell to pay." 

"We don't even know what he wants!" Arthur protested, desperately. 

"Yes we do," Albus Dumbledore spoke up softly from across the table. "We all know that Malfoy holds a grudge against you due to the Battle of Winnopea, you are the prize he has hunted for *years*, Arthur. The fact that you have Ministry information that would make Voldemort grin in glee is merely a side incentive." 

"We are ready to make that sacrifice," Molly replied stiffly. 

"But *we* are not!" Smithers Jonestone, head of Seek and Rescue responded heatedly. "We will *not* give up Ministry secrets to save one mere child." 

"One mere child?!" Disbelief was etched into every line of Molly's face. "One *mere* child?! Why, you over blown windbag! I ought to..." 

"Molly, that is enough," Crouch reprimanded harshly. "Surely there is *some* way we can come to an exchange that is agreeable to all parties." 

"Precisely," Dumbledore agreed. "And I do believe I know of a way." he paused, making eye contact with each of the members of the Ministry's council before continuing. 

"Ever heard of a Muggle term, fight fire with fire, my friends?" 

*** 

He didn't know how long he was left alone in his private torture chamber - what felt like days was most likely only hours, the small, rational part of his brain told him, yet rationality was no defence against the increasing rising fear that seemed to consume everything like a greedy troll. 

He hadn't moved from the spot against the wall, the terror of upsetting the demons far too great. So when the door was finally thrust open and dull light crept into the room from the barely lit corridor, he found that his body had stiffened up so much that he couldn't launch himself out of the room as his mind begged. 

His own body had betrayed him. Traitor. 

It was his Shadow who had returned; he had decided to call the man that during his many hours (minutes? days?) of isolation. This time instead of picking him up, he simply dragged him to his feet, ignoring the cry of pain that was the result of unstretched limbs. 

"You are wanted," Shadow said gruffly, yet the way he still held his hand instead of letting it go went part way to diffusing the harsh words. 

Percy clung to that hand like a lifeline, as he was lead out of the room and down the corridor. Even though the corridors were hardly well lit themselves, the contrast after so long made his eyes water slightly. Part of him wanted to squeeze them back shut, to avoid the harshness. Yet the more inquisitive part of him refused to, instead soaking in the unusual scenery, the rigid walls that seemed to speak of harshness and cruelty. Occasionally they passed another Death Eater, each seemingly more fierce and dark than the one before. He found himself practically hiding behind his Shadow whenever one was near, they radiated death and decay, and Percy was scared that simply being near one would somehow make that rub off onto him. 

The room they finally reached was off to the side of the never-ending corridor. In design it was no different to anything else, Spartan and ... well, boring. Of the same stone that adorned the corridor, it was clearly meant to be an office, yet the room lacked the personality or warmth that his Pa's did. 

But then, Percy mused as his eyes landed on exactly *who* was sitting behind the desk in front of him, Lucius was different from his Pa in pretty much every way... 

The fear that had faded slightly after being freed from the room returned full force. Lucius scared him, the man was mean and nasty and, and ... dark. Nothing seemed to describe him better. Blackness seemed to follow him, *be* him. 

"Sit." Lucius commanded, gesturing to a chair that was set up in front of his desk. Gingerly, he obeyed. Coldly studying him for a moment, it was a while before the man spoke up. 

"When was the last time you saw your father, Percy?" The question surprised him. Why would Lucius want to know that? Surely he would rather know where Ma was hiding? But Ma would have most likely moved them all the moment he had been captured, Percy thought bitterly, remembering his mother's betrayal. *She* had left him with this monster. She was supposed to have saved him. The impatient glance from Lucius brought him harshly back to reality. 

"6 months, 7 months?" He offered weakly, doing quick calculations in his head. "He visited Ma about two months ago, but I was asleep..." 

"That's a long time, Percy - don't you miss him?" Again, Percy paused. He should miss Pa, shouldn't he? Yet his father was almost a stranger, he could only rarely visit the safe houses for fear of detection. But he was a nice man, and he always made sure Percy's book supply never ran out... 

"Yes?" He replied timidly, shuffling nervously in his seat as the man's penetrating gaze rested on him. 

"And would you like to see him again, soon?" Soft, almost gentle. Percy nodded his head vigorously; wine red hair flopping about wildly. Anything to get away from here. A malicious grin lit up Lucius' face. 

"Let's hope dear old Pa feels the same way, hmm? Can you do something for me, Percy?" Lucius then asked, the same soft tone being applied. Again, Percy nodded, although this time it was far more reserved, almost cautious. 

"Ah, good boy. See this little cube here? I want you to speak to it like it was your daddy, just so that he knows how much you miss him, hmm? I promise to pass it on to him." 

"Promise?" Percy asked quietly, starring at the small cube. Would Pa *really* be able to hear him, and more importantly, would he *come* for him? Maybe Pa had more important things to do, he always seemed to... 

"I promise, Percy - now be a good boy and co-operate." 

*** 

He waited almost an hour after the boy had been taken back to his cell before connecting to the Ministry, taking that time to plan his revenge perfectly. Arthur Weasley would suffer before he died, why wait until he was officially in his hands? 

They had been waiting for him, of course. Four days without hearing from him must have worried both of the Weasley's so terribly. How good of him to end their torment. 

Upon seeing who the person on the other end of the visual connection was, the bland secretary quickly put him through to what Lucius was positive was some temporary meeting room that had been set up just for this call. After several moments, the outraged face of Arthur Weasley finally showed up through the mist. 

"Lucius - I want my son back," He demanded in a low growl. Lucius grinned pleasantly at him in response. 

"Now, now, Arthur - surely we could at least attempt some pretence of pleasantries. How has your week been? I must say, mine has been rather ... productive." His smile widened as Arthur growled again, yet the smile faded as an almost feral look came over the other man. 

"Yes, yes - where *are* my manners?" The tone Arthur took set Lucius on edge - *he* was the one who was supposed to be playing games, not Arthur. Arthur wasn't in any position to be doing so. "My week has been rather ... complicated, but I do believe it is looking up." 

"I have a message from your son," Lucius responded curtly, ending the game before it had barely started. "You know what I want in return." He played the small sound bite then, satisfaction creeping into his features as Arthur paled slightly as the pitiful voice pleaded with him to take him home. "Shall we arrange a time to make a swap - the child for yourself?" 

"Children are such wonderful things, aren't they?" Arthur mused, confusing Lucius in a way that bothered him immensely. What was the matter with the man?! "They bring such joy, such fulfilment - wouldn't you agree, Lucius?" 

Lucius froze as triumph spread across Arthur's face. 

"And your son - such a sweet little thing, isn't he? All blonde and pretty." 

"How did you know about him?" Lucius seethed, panic rising quickly to the surface as Arthur smirked in reply. 

"I'm sure you are just dying to know Lucius, just as I *know* you would love to find out who personally handed him over to us." 

"You're lying." Lucius denied hotly, unable to believe what the man was implying. 

"I'm deadly serious." All hint of mockery was gone. Lucius' eyes widened in shock, as Molly Weasley appeared next to her husband, his month old son nesting in her arms, sound asleep. 

"But ... how?!" Only a small handful of people knew his son even existed, fewer still where baby Draco and Narcissa were hiding. Who could have betrayed him? Arthur didn't bother to answer the question, instead, supplied one of his own. 

"I think we need to re-evaluate the conditions of this little trade off, don't you?" 

*** 

_Twinkle, twinkle_

He'd never thought he would miss the stars. They had taunted him for so long, hung there so tantalisingly - he would have crushed them without a wisp of hesitation if he had only had the power to do so. 

Now, he longed for their company. The stars would have driven this unrelenting darkness back into the hole it had come from, scatter the demons like mere shadows on a bright summer day. Yet he had scorned them for their beauty, their freedom. They would not come to his aid. That fault was all his. 

_little star_

It was *all* his fault - the darkness had taught him that. He was being punished because he had been bad - but he hadn't meant to! He had just needed to be free, to not be so restrained! 

No wonder Ma had abandoned him. There had always been strict rules to obey, and the vast majority of them Percy had relentlessly followed. Yet he had needed his nightly outings, his own personal escapism from the war... 

Never again, he vowed silently - one did not want to disrupt the demons. Never again would he break a single rule. Even though it often didn't seem like it, there was a reason they had each been made. 

Please Ma, he pleaded quietly, biting his lip as more tears threatened to fall. Please forgive me - I promise to be good! 

He wrapped the light blanket tightly around his frail shoulders - his Shadow had tossed it in some time ago. Time was as measurable as the ocean; he had long since stopped trying to gauge it. 

All he knew was that the darkness never went away. 

The odd piece of food or water he received was now apparated in; devoiding him of even the occasional light the corridor might have provided. He hadn't seen his Shadow since the blanket had arrived. 

So he was surprised when the cell door slid open, more so when it was accompanied by a source of bright light. Yelping, he covered his eyes, shielding them from the searing pain the light caused. 

"Get up!" The cold voice that haunted each sleep demanded. Blinking back the tears the onslaught of light had brought on, he slowly did so, glancing up at Lucius as he did. The fierce scowl on the man's face made him take a terror driven step back. 

"You're father," Lucius began softly, each word dripping of ice. "Just made the biggest mistake of his life." Scared eyes became impossibly wider as the monster drew his wand up level with Percy's chest. 

"Please, no! I promise to be a good boy, I'm sure Pa didn't mean it, of course he didn't!" He didn't care that he was babbling, or that he had no idea what either his father had done *or* what Lucius planned to do. All he knew was that it was bad... 

"Crucio!" 

*** 

The sobs racked his small frame, convulsions and tremors running marathons up and down his body. Hoarse screams tore themselves painfully from his throat, begging for the torture to stop, promising the sun and the moon if it did. 

He didn't realise that it had, many hours ago. 

Each fibre, each bone, each *cell*, sung an individual octave of pain, harmonising perfectly to create a hellish symphony. It hurt, oh Gods, it hurt ... 

And then, the darkness was not due to the lack of light. 

*** 

They had, rather ironically, agreed to make the exchange by the stream that Percy had first been snatched from. There were enough vantage points for both set of snipers to hide, causing each to easily cancel each other out. While both Lucius and Arthur had agreed to bring only one other person, neither believed the other would do so. 

Molly had been livid when Arthur had calmly stated that it would be best if Albus accompanied him. No amount of persuasion had been able to convince her that she shouldn't walk beside her husband, and it was only when Albus had taken her aside and talked to her in private that she had finally calmed down and assented. 

She had never shared that conversation with him. Perhaps later, Arthur would ask her what was said. 

And so it was, that he waited nervously in the clearing with the Head of Hogwarts, and perhaps, Arthur suspected, one of the greatest Wizards of all time. There were few better to be watching your back. Even with that knowledge, he still stiffened when Lucius and his companion apparated right in front of them. 

"What have you done?!" He hoarsely demanded, eyes landing on the heap that was his son in the other man's arms. Bruises covered a far too pale face, and his breathing was much too slow and raspy. 

_The cruciatus curse, dear Gods_. He would kill the man for hurting his son. 

"I don't remember there being anything in our agreement that said they had to be unharmed," Lucius replied aloofly, yet his dark gaze belied the casual tone. "Severus, hold this thing, will you?" He dumped the child like a bag of dirty laundry into the other man's waiting arms. "Now, my son?" 

"We will exchange them together," Arthur growled, eyes still fixated on his young son. "You will have to forgive my apparent lack of trust." 

Lucius smirked, yet it was empty, devoid of anything other than superficial bravado. He said nothing as Albus gently placed a cranky looking Draco into his arms, attempted even less as Severus did the same with the boy. Cradling the small, broken body securely in his arms, Arthur turned eyes of burning embers on Lucius. 

"I will hunt you down and destroy you, Malfoy," he declared. It was neither a threat nor an intimidation, simply a statement of fact. And it had far more of an effect on Lucius than he would ever be willing to admit. Without another word, Lucius apparated away, son safely in his arms. After a quick nod in their direction, and a gaze that lingered briefly on the small child, Severus followed suit. 

A timid whimper from his precious bundle drew Arthur's gaze immediately away from the spot the men had been on, and down onto his son. Bruised eyes that had been closed in unconsciousness now attempted to force their way open, blinking blearingly at the sharp light. 

"Pa?" The question was a distant whisper, spoken as though speaking any louder was either impossible or caused too much pain. Considering what Arthur suspected he had been through, that was of little surprise. 

"I'm here, Percy," he murmured softly, gently brushing aside the unruly red hair that framed the small face. "There is no need to strain yourself, Perce - it's safe now." 

"I'm sorry," Percy continued, not seeming to hear is father. "Tell Ma I'm sorry as well?" Arthur nodded silently. Percy was in little state to argue with right now, he would correct the fact he appeared to think this was all his fault when Percy was actually able to comprehend it. 

"And the stars to," he added, forcing the words out slowly. "Tell the stars..." the quite voice trailed off as he once again slipped unconsciousness, hands that had clenched his shirt loosening before falling to the side. 

"And the stars as well," Arthur softly promised as he prepared to apparate along with Albus. "And the stars as well." 

And somewhere, a small boy danced with the stars. 

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	2. Oliver Wood

Untitled **Where do the Children Play?**

Summary: It is often the children who are forgotten during war, their tales the ones that go untold. Percy Weasley. Oliver Wood. Marcus Flint. Three such children whose lives were changed irreversibly by the first war against Voldemort, a war that they were not only witness to, but unwilling participants of. Here are their stories 

Warning: Contains occasional early 80's slang. Be scared. Thanks: Once again to my fantastic beta-reader - I don't know what I would do without you WT2 =) 

**

Chapter Two - Oliver

**

*This* was what all the hype was about?! 

He had heard tales of the great Quidditch stadiums. Fluted columns, golden facades. Looping archways that seemed to reach to the heavens above. They had always sounded like something out of those strange myths his sister was always babbling on about. Yet the Goldbridge stadium was none of those. It was dirty and crusty and rundown and, and .. tired. Yes - exactly. Tired and worn, like an old shoe. He took in the circular brick building with disdain, the faded bricks nothing more than a glaring lie. Vines now twisted randomly up the walls, stretching impossibly high. 

If it smelled like an old shoe on the inside, he was leaving, Oliver thought, pouting. Quidditch was supposed to be glamorous and, well - groovy. This was about as groovy as his grandmother's bell-bottoms. 

"It's far different inside," Alex, his much older brother promised, smiling at the scowl on the small boy's round face. "You'll see." 

It had better be. He'd given up a whole day playing with Thomas to come watch the game. 

If he had been in a more rational mood, Oliver might have admitted to himself that he had been begging Alex for months to take him to a game. That the many posters and tiny figurines that adorned every available space of his room was testament to his growing obsession with a game that he had never actually witnessed personally. 

But Oliver wasn't known for his rationality, so he sulked instead. 

The scowl that had made its way onto his face as a result of his viewing of the outside deepened as they finally *did* enter the stadium, along with a small but steady trickle of other wizards and their families. If possible, the stadium was in worse condition *inside*. Rows of wooden planks were all that served as seating, and there was little protection offered from the sun that was burning far too brightly. With a wistful glance at the wizard next to him, he wished he had remembered to bring a hat, the long brown strands of thick hair that annoyingly flopped around his face would offer little protection against the sun that was burning powerfully through the thick haze. 

Alex took his hand, much to Oliver's disdain and embarrassment. He was SIX years old! He didn't need to be treated like a baby! Flaming a bright red that had little to do with his exposure to the sun, Oliver docilely - scowl still very much in place, followed Alex down a flight of stairs and into the winding tunnels below the stadium. The sour look that dominated his face was instantly replaced with wonder when his eyes caught sight of what *was* down there, however. 

GROOVY!! 

The walls of the corridor were lined with framed photographs of past teams, all brilliantly colourful and active, so different to the rest of the drab stadium. He bounced over to the nearest photo - a golden plaque beneath it proudly proclaimed the team 'GoldBridge 1923'. He waved eagerly at the players, who stared stocky back at him, not even flickering a wayward eyelid. 

How rude. They could have at least smiled. 

He frowned crossly at them, before moving on to the next picture. This time half the back row waved back, although they claimed innocence when the Captain turned and glared at them in annoyance. Oliver laughed in delight as he moved from picture to picture, growling at players who showed little interest in his game, applauding wildly those who did. Alex trailed along behind him, a small smile playing on his lips. 

The last picture in the row was one of *this* particular stadium, although Oliver wouldn't have recognised it if it hadn't said so on the plaque. Gone were those horrible wooden seat thingies, in their place were individual seats with cushions in a bright floral blue. The brown pitch was instead a brilliant envy green, and the goal posts no longer were victims of faded, peeling paint, but coloured a vibrant, glowing gold. 

"How come it looks so different now?" He quizzed his older brother, motioning towards the picture. Alex sighed, mindless of the growl that crept from his sibling as he patted him on the head. 

"There is no money during wartime to be spent on keeping Quidditch grounds looking beautiful," Alex responded almost wistfully as he guided Oliver down yet another corridor. "Everything that was of use - the gold, precious stones and metals, was stripped down by the Ministry to be used against Voldemort. That which the Ministry did not take, looters did." 

Oliver thought about this for moment, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the few sickles that lay there. 

"Will this help?" He asked, holding his small palm out to Alex, the blunt coins shinning in the light. Biting back a grin, Alex glanced at his brother mock seriously. 

"I believe that money will best aid the stadium if it was spent on hot dogs, don't you?" This time there was no holding back the grin as Oliver nodded sagely, placing the coins almost reverently back in his pocket. Glancing at the signs tacked almost hazardously to each door, Alex finally stopped in front of one. 

"Ah, here it is!" He spoke brightly, pulling out the notebook he used whenever he conducted an interview. Alex Wood - Sports Journalist extraordinaire. Oliver had always thought his brother had one of the most radical jobs in the world. 

"Now, Oliver - be a good kid and sit patiently in the corner somewhere, remember? Zimeran will shit bricks if he finds out I brought you along." Oliver screwed his face up at the mention of Alex's editor. He was always giving Alex a hard time, and according to his brother, wouldn't know a Bludger if it hit him in his face, knocked his front teeth out and exited through his left nostril. Oliver tended to agree. He doubted *anyone* could identify something while it was stuck up their nose. 

So it was more out of respect for his brother than Mr 'as hip as a pair of gum boots in spring', Zimeran that he remained quietly at his brother's side as they entered the dressing room. The same element of decorum could not be said for Alex, who the moment he entered the room was wrapped in a giant bear hug by one of the players. 

"Alex, mate! How ya been?" Alex smiled at the overbearing Australian before turning to introduce him to his brother. 

"Oliver, this is -" 

"Tama Cummings, Australian Seeker!" Oliver cut in breathlessly, idolising the man instantly. "I saw the vid of your World Cup match against Albania - brilliant!" 

"I tend to think so," Tama replied with all the modesty of a ... well, Australian. He smiled down at Oliver before turning back to Alex. "The Pofters from the Daily Prophet didn't tell me they were sending *you* to do the interview, it wasn't until one of the blokes here told me you covered this scene that I realised. So, how has life post-Hogwarts treated you?" He questioned, suddenly changing gears. "It must have been 2, 3 years since we last saw each other!" 

Oliver blinked back his surprise. Alex had gone to school with Tama Cummings. TAMA Cummings?! How could Alex not have told him something so gnarly?! 

Alex laughed at something Tama said while Oliver had been lost in his thoughts, before going into a spiel about his recent journalism feats. None to gently, he pushed Oliver towards a nearby bench, either oblivious to the fact Oliver wanted to be near the living legend, or because of it. Pouting, he sat down, shooting his brother a withering glare as he did so. So caught up in his conversation, Alex failed to notice, which riled Oliver even more. 

Slouching, he at first attempted to keep up with the bantering between Alex and Tama, but quickly grew miffed at having to hear about Alex's many escapades. It didn't help that the Australian had such a nasal accent that Oliver could barely pick out anything from *his* side of the conversation, other than to discover that he was here to keep in form during the Australian off season. 

Unable to keep up with the conversation, he instead chose to study the famed Quidditch player. He seemed smaller than he appeared on the vid cube, more sleek than muscle, yet his build stills seemed to radiate with hidden power. Ivory white teeth gleamed in stark contrast to the dark, ink stained skin. Oliver had heard tales of the prejudice and opposition Cummings had faced on his way to becoming one of the top Quidditch players in the world. Although the Australians liked to deny it, the aborigine people were still often treated badly, were still held down by the many European settlers. Racism, poverty and prejudice had not stood in the small man's way, and it was one of the reasons he was so revered. 

Simon Keller, who Oliver easily identified as one of the Beaters, joined the conversation. Little was known about the recent Hogwarts graduate or, more aptly put, Oliver knew nothing of him, therefore no one else was entitled to either. Unlike most Beaters, he was as slim a build as Cummings, and this caused Oliver to immediately doubt his ability. A good Beater needed to be powerful but this guy seemed to be nothing more than a pansy who even *he* could have taken in a fight. 

That said, there were few people Oliver thought he couldn't. 

He spared the other members of the team little scrutiny, although his gaze did linger on each briefly. Linda McDonald, Chaser. Blindingly brilliant, with a fierce temper and a hooked nose to match. Jacob Hindi, the half Pakistani chaser who partnered Linda. Victim of overzealous parents who thought his name should reflect both heritage's. Serena McDonald, the younger of the two McDonald sisters and as icy as her sister was fiery. And lastly, the ageing Gary Anderson, Keeper. Oliver couldn't help but feel sorry for the veteran player - what a boring position Keeper must be! All the good places must have been taken when he had joined the team, Oliver decided. He simply couldn't understand why anyone would want to play such a bland and unimportant position if that wasn't the case. 

Now *Seeker*, that was completely different. Closing his eyes, he could imagine himself scooting through the crystal air, dipping and tumbling, swerving elegantly as bludgers try to knock him from his broom. On he went, seeking the elusive snitch, being cheered on by thousands chanting his name. "Oliver! Oliver!" To new heights it drove him, to more daring aerial gambles ... 

"We best be going, Oliver," Alex broke into his favourite daydream with a smile. "We want to get a good seat for the game." 

The corridors were this time more crowded as they headed out of the dressing room. Although Oliver was loathe to admit it, he was secretly glad that Alex had grabbed tight hold of his hand as they moved steadily amongst the crowd. It was rather unsettling the way all these big people were pushing each other in an attempt to get up to the stadium. 

But Alex would keep him safe. He always did. 

When they finally reached the top of the stadium, Oliver was stunned by the transformation that had taken place in the 20 minutes that they had been below. Flooded with people, the stadium seemed to have come alive. Wave after wave of banners and flags danced in the air, and cheers and chants were already being sung full force. 

Amazed, he let Alex lead him to a small space still unoccupied on one of the benches, midway up the west stand. it was a tight squeeze - the fat man on Alex's right refused to squish over, and the old bag on *his* side keep needling him with her bony elbows. 

A loud roar thundered around the stands as the two teams flew into the stadium. As one, the crowd rose to their feet, and for a moment Oliver panicked as they seemed to close in, towering over him. The moment passed soon enough, and he belittled himself roughly for acting like a coward. 

Slowly, the crowd lowered back into their seats, and Oliver could once again get a clear view of the pitch. Goldbridge were dressed in their accustomed flamboyant black and gold, while in start contrast, the Lidon Lions uniform was very much drab and dull. 

"Who would want to support such an ugly team?" Oliver scoffed. Alex hushed him quickly. 

"The Lidonian Valley has had a tough year, Oliver. Those uniforms were the best they could afford." Properly chastened, Oliver glanced down at his new sneakers with a sense of shame. The sharp shrill of a whistle, broke him from his thoughts, however, and in a fleeting moment the feeling of pity was gone as quickly as a summer rain. 

Eyes wide, he watched in wonder as simultaneously both teams suddenly became active. He found himself unconsciously mimicking the actions of the players, dodging one way as the opposing Seeker barely missed colliding with his own goal post, then ducking wildly as a Bludger zoomed barely over the top of Serena McDonald's head. He squeezed his hands into fists tightly as first one Chaser from Lidon and then another passed the Quaffle tightly between them. With baited breath he watch as Simon Keller sent a Bludger spiraling up to one of them, but no! It went slightly to the left! 

"Come on!" He cried, his call lost amongst the many others. Clutching his seat tightly with both hands, he watched in growing despair as the two chasers made their way to the Goldbridge goal post. All that separated them from scoring a goal was Gary. His breath deserted him as the Quaffle went speeding towards the goal, the angle seemingly too narrow, the ball sailing too high for Gary to reach it ... 

"I don't believe it!" Alex yelled from his place beside him, pumping a fist in the air as the agile keeper seemed to practically dive off of his broom, twisting in the air to knock the Quaffle away. Glued to the spot in disbelief, Oliver missed the desperate and futile grab made by Tama in an attempt to claim the just noticed Snitch, or Jacob Hindi scoring at the other end. 

Wow. Like ... wow. He'd never seen a *Seeker* do what Gary had done. And yet, even though the other man had just pulled off a practically suicidal dive, he was still tense, still on guard for the next potential attack. 

Oliver shot a look of disdain quickly at Tama, who, having lost sight of the snitch, was now hovering above the other players, eyes on the look out. Seekers were lazy, Oliver concluded, as Gary knocked another Quaffle away. All they did was sit on their brooms and pose for the cameras. And then what? They swept in, grabbed the snitch, and got all the credit. One little moment of work, and they were heroes. Yet it was really the other team members who did all the hard work. 

Like the Keeper. Now *that* was a real position. 

So lost was he in his admiration of the Keeper, he didn't hear the first terrified scream that rose from the ground. Even if he had been listening for it, it was doubtful it would have reached him over the bubbling and enthusiastic crowd. When first one, then another, cry joined in however, the whole crowd fell silent for one brief moment, before erupting into a chorus of screams and cries. 

"Death Eaters!" Alex breathed desperately, astonished. "How?! They shouldn't have been able to get past the charms!" 

Oliver didn't hear a word his brother said, instead his gaze hovered horrifyingly on the group of Death Eaters that had flown into the middle of the stadium like a swarm of locusts, dispersing the players in panic. As if suddenly awoken from their petrified stupor, the crowd as one moved towards the exits, panic robbing them of all sensibility. 

"Come on!" Alex practically hissed, pulling Oliver to his feet roughly. Eyes darting wildly, his older brother seemed to be attempting to gauge the best way out, yet the sudden surge from the crowd around them prevented any such attempt. Being shoved from all sides, Oliver lost his footing with a groan, and for a moment fell to his knees, Alex somehow managing to drag him back up onto his feet. He yelped as someone stood on his foot, clinging desperately to his brother's hand as they blindly tried to weave their way through the crowd. The crowd that was crushing in on them from all sides had other ideas, and all they could do was try and move with the flow of it. 

He cried out in pain as an elbow crashed into the side of his head, sending him spiraling to the ground. The sudden movement pulled his small hand from Alex's, and in despair he thrust his hand to where Alex's had been, to find it already swallowed up by the crowd who had surged quickly into the space. 

"Alex!" Desperation took control as he vainly tried to get back to his feet, only to be pushed back down again by panicking hands. He caught a brief glance of his brother, trying to fight his way back through the crowds to get to him, before he too was swallowed up. Sobbing, he grabbed wildly at the nearest person, begging silently for help. Yet, he was brushed off impatiently, and he lost the precious little balance he had gained as he went tumbling down again. He cried as first a random foot connected with his chest, then a knee hard into the back of his shoulders. The sky above him had narrowed into a tiny dot, the light the sun had offered practically blacked out by the towering people above him. 

"Alex!" He sobbed again, choking slightly as someone stamped on his already bruised fingers. However, this time it was accompanied by a muffled curse, then strong arms wrapping themselves around him and hoisting him up in one, fluent sweep. He clung to his saviour, his desperation making it impossible to thank the man. Mere seconds after being in the man's grasp, however, he was lifted up, breaching the layer of people and emerging in the light up above. 

"One, child!" His saviour yelled into some device attached to his shirt, and it was only then that Oliver comprehended that he was one of the security men that had littered the ground. Eyes wide, he watched in amazement as one of the Goldbridge players zoomed in his direction, and without even pausing, whisked him from the grasp of the guard and up onto the broomstick. Clinging desperately to the strong back, Oliver tried to stem the tears that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his eyes. 

"It's all right kid," The man- Anderson, it was Gary Anderson, softly uttered, as they flew low over the crowd to one of the more deserted and covered parts of the stands. Landing near the base of one of the empty corporate boxes, he gently shoved Oliver inside. 

"Hide in here until everything calms down," Gary spoke quietly, yet with a tone that demanded obedience. "They will not search up here, and the exits are a death trap." 

Oliver nodded numbly, desperately trying to block out the terrified screams laced with pain as his own personal nightmare began to slightly fade. No, not fade - just change setting. He glanced around the small room - chairs laid knocked over, and expensive wine was spilt on the carpet where in a rush, the occupants had dropped their glasses. He turned scared eyes on the Quidditich player, who had turned to exit the room. 

"You're ... you're not leaving, are you?" He asked desperately, unable to keep the tremor from his voice. Pausing, Gary turned back around and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. 

"It will all be over soon, kid - you'll be fine here." 

"I think it would be best to re-evaluate that thought," A cold voice spoke from the doorway, causing Gary to swiftly turn towards the voice. Oliver stared in disbelief at the Death Eater who now stood guarding the only way out of the room, his wand raised. 

This wasn't how it was suppose to happen! Oliver thought desperately. It was supposed to be a funky game of Quidditch, the odd hot dog or two, and time spent with his older brother. THIS was not suppose to be happening!! 

"You don't want to do this," Gary softly spoke, gently pushing Oliver behind him with his spare arm. The other, still holding his own wand, was tense with expectation. "You know that if you don't leave now, the Aurors will be on you like maggots to a dying carcass - they will be here any moment." The statement brought a harsh laugh from the Death Eater. 

"The Aurors will not save you, Quidditch player - nor will they save the child," dark eyes lingered greedily on Oliver, who had peeped around the corner of Gary's brilliant robe. "It has been far too long since I killed one, I had forgotten how much enjoyment it brings to watch their innocent faces contort in blinding pain before life is drained from their very souls. Rather poetic, really." 

"Killing a child would have you put in front of the Dementors within seconds," Gary bit back, and Oliver was shocked when the seemingly marble Death Eater flinched. What was a Dementor that it scared even a Death Eater?! "The Aurors - " 

"The Aurors are not coming!" The Death Eater interrupted triumphantly. "And your delaying tactics will not work, you play Quidditch far better than you divert attention." With that he aimed his wand at Gary's chest. "Occumbo!" 

"Move!" Gary shouted, shoving Oliver harshly to the right as he himself dived to the left. Crashing hard into the legs of a table, Oliver whimpered softly before rolling under it. On the other side of the room, Gary barely missed the powerful bolt that was aimed at him, and was ducking behind an upturned chair, wand aimed at the Death Eater. 

"Quiesco!" Gary cried out in return, the spell easily avoided by the more powerful Death Eater. 

"The time for games is long past," The Death Eater growled, a quick spell vaporising the chair into a small pile of dust. "Death awaits you, Quidditch player, and his patience is wearing thin." Unprotected, panic stared to appear for the first time on Gary's face. A spell was half out of his lips when the Death Eater beat him to it. 

"Avada Kedavra!" 

"No!!" Oliver's scream pierced the deathly silent air as Gary collapsed into a tangled heap, eyes frozen forever in fear and twisted with an indescribable pain. 

"Nononononono ..." Oliver murmured to himself, eyes growing in panic as the Death Eater turned to him, malice etched into every feature of the cold face. He scuttled backwards, eyes locked on the approaching figure. "Please, I ...I ..." He stuttered, words deserting him in terror. What could he say? What *did* one say to someone who was going to kill you? 

"Sweet child," The Death Eater spoke quietly, eyes dancing with a perverted delight. "This will hardly hurt at all, and think - your youth will forever be preserved, something many a wizard longs for in their old age." Oliver looked at him in disbelief, the guy was nuts! 

"Doesn't killing someone rather defeat the whole purpose of always looking young?" He asked timidly, knowing not to provoke the man in case he ... in case he what? Killed him? He was going to do that anyway! 

The Death Eater frowned, before speaking up again. 

"You may have a point, although it does sound rather lovely, don't you agree? Pretty prose aside, where was I?" He mused in mock reflection. "Ah, I remember! Avada Ked-" 

"Occumbo!" 

Oliver's sob this time was in all encompassing relief, as this time it was the Death Eater who crumbled to the ground, unconscious. "Alex!" He cried, launching himself at his brother who stood just outside the room, wand still raised. Leaching onto his brothers waist, he let himself be pulled up into his brother's arms, were he clung desperately to him. 

"Oh, Alex! It was horrible! Gary is ... and he ... and you!" Everything came out in mumbled gibberish as he rested his head on Alex's shoulder sobbing softly. "How did you, how did you *know*?" 

"I saw Gary fly overhead," Alex spoke up quietly, hugging his brother close. "I tried to get here as soon as possible, I tried ..." His voice trailed off as his gaze lingered on the dead body of the Quidditch player. He closed his eyes in grief as he pulled Oliver tighter in to his chest. "I'm sorry Oliver, I'm so sorry." 

Sobbing, Oliver didn't hear a word he said. Alex was here, Alex would make everything better. 

He always did. 

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	3. Marcus Flint

Untitled Note: Epilogue to come. Big thanks as always to my fantastic beta reader, Weasleytwin2. 

**Chapter Three: Marcus Flint**  
For we are all products of our childhood

He had found it strange at first, the partying. Dusk was, after all, a time when everything was blanketed in darkness and whispered enchantments. Silence reigned like a fear driven chariot throughout the night, partnered only by the dread of the Death Eaters whose possibility always threatened. 

So this, this wasn't usual. Standing on the doorstop with his mother, still clad in his pajamas, his wide eyes took in the very unusual scene that was his usually dour street. Instead of being locked up in their houses, everyone had flowed out onto the streets, weeping hysterical tears onto each others shoulders while dancing erratically to some beat that was being played. Yet, yet, they were not crying the tears that he was used to. Tears of death, he knew. Tears ruled by fear, he knew those as well. But this wasn't that. 

He didn't understand. 

"Mummy, what's going on?" He asked, looking up questioningly. "Why are they crying with smiles on their face?" 

His mother glanced down, a warm smile decorating the beautifully frail face. It was rare for his mother to smile so freely, and it only served to confuse him more. 

"They cry because they are free, Marcus - because *we* are free," The smile widened as brilliant bolts of light suddenly shot into the air, weaving seducingly through the evening sky. 

"Free?" This just became more confusing. 

"Free from Voldemort, my child - free from fear!" She laughed, drawing him into a loose hug. "Everything will go back to how it was now, everything will finally be normal." 

With wonder, Marcus glanced around, everything suddenly taking on a new look. Could it be true? Could everything be going back to being 'normal'? He had heard tales of what life had once been like: myths that had been spoken by those few yet to be disillusioned by the decay the war had resulted in. He had been entranced by their stories, an eager listener. Had there really been a time where one was allowed to go out after sunset? He had always thought only the foolhardy would dare such a thing. And the use of light after 6pm - surely not! Who would want to possibly attract such deadly attention to their house? The myths had been spun deeper and more far fetched - a world where rationing was a thing of the distant past, and money could be used on such trivial things as vid cubes and jokes. They had not known fear back then, they had said ... 

"Dance with me," His mother said with a smile, taking his hand and leading him down to the crowded street below. He hesitated slightly, still fearing that perhaps no one had told the Death Eaters that normal had come back. But the warm hand grasping his helped to make *that* fear slid slowly away, as did the buoyant happiness that seemed to practically illuminate from everyone. This was all so wonderful and terrifying and incredibly different to everything he was ever used to ... 

Yes, he had found this partying strange at first. And then, it had simply seemed right. 

***** 

He had been sure it was some sort of dream, the next morning. He would have believed it, if the completely tuneless and off-key voice of his mother hadn't floated lazily up the stairs and into his room, carried on the back of some modern song that was always being played on the radio. Mother never sang. Not lullabies, not soothing songs during raids, certainly not the Top Ten Teen Tunes. 

He hoped normal came with earmuffs. Yech. 

Slipping quickly into the jump suit that his mother had left next to his bed, he quietly padded down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the source of the early morning howling was hiding out. In undisguised amazement, he watched as his mother flipped a pancake with a seemingly well practiced ease while turning the sausages at the same time. 

Pancakes *and* sausages? Both were treats, and certainly never had at the same time. He slid into his chair with a wince as his mother tried vainly to hit a note that was far too high. The song mercifully died its agonising death when, spinning around in time to the song, his mother's eyes fell on her only child. 

"Marcus, dear, how long have you been here?" There was the smile again. It seemed to come so easily to her lips, almost as if it had some kind of permanent claim. It was strange, to see her smile so much. While his mother had always tried to make sure he was happy, there was always a lingering sadness about her that seemed to taint her every move, colour each comforting word. Now, it had evaporated like morning dew in early morning haze. 

"Just a couple of secs," he responded, pouncing on the warm breakfast the moment it was laid down in front of him. Devouring it with zest, it was several long moments before he looked back up at his mother, who had sat down opposite him with her own breakfast. 

"Yesterday will be a day forever etched in history, Marcus," she spoke up, sipping gingerly from her mug. "For so long, *so* long , we have lived in this unrelenting fear, however fate has dealt her hand kindly in our favour." Marcus waited impatiently for her to continue, fiddling idly with his food. "Two innocent people died to give us our freedom, many more trying to achieve it. Never forget that, dear. We are all living on the time that was supposed to be granted for others." As she trailed off, Marcus nodded, not really understanding, but not caring a great deal that he didn't. Suddenly, he froze, fork dangling mid air. 

"If the war is over ..." he reflected, excitement building. "Then that means -" 

"That good old dad can come home," A light tenor finished from the doorway. 

"Da!" Slipping quickly from his seat, Marcus threw himself at his father, laughing gleefully as he was swept up in his strong arms. "Da, Da, Da!" He practically giggled in delight as his father placed a soft kiss on the tip of his nose. Da hadn't been home for *months*, and now that normal was here, Da would never have to go out and fight against those nasty Death Eaters again! 

"Oh Marcus," Da whispered softly, smiling over the small head at his wife, who, close to tears, seemed too overcome to come and greet him herself. 

Even the myths hadn't prepared Marcus for just how wonderful normal would feel. 

***** 

For nineteen days, normal had wrapped them its blanket of wonderment. Marcus loved with a passion, the new life that seemed to have sprung out of nowhere, how all the rules that had governed their lives were quickly becoming as distant as a dying sunset. His mother said that even many of the rules that *were* still in place would soon be removed by time. 

But most of all, he loved having Da around. Da had always been so busy as an Auror, and often had had very little time to spend with him. But now, Da could take him to the park or teach him to fly his new broomstick or even simply just read him a story in front of the fireplace. This was one of Marcus' favorite times, the way he could curl up in his father's lap, listening to his tales of the war. Love untainted by fear was something that was so new ... 

The sun had long since retired when _they_ had come. Easily past his bed time, Marcus was still seated on the floor in front of his father's chair, listening entranced as Da spun an elaborate tale of deception and flying brilliance. Wide eyed, he gasped in disbelief as Da described aerial moves so daring and dangerous that they seemed to defy logic. 

So caught up in the tale, he hadn't notice the intruders enter the room until Da had trailed off mid sentence, before quickly rising to his feet. Shuffling around to face the direction that Da had turned to, Marcus had been surprised to seen four men standing near the living room doorway. Each was clad in ruby red robes of silk, the splayed ends gently kissing the soft carpet. Tasseled gold rope snaked its way around each of the varying sized hips, while still more of the fine thread dripped from the collar of the robes. Assorted badges and medals adorned each rogue chest, and if the stern faces were not an easy indicator of the importance of the guests, then their dress certainly was. 

In wonder, he watched as Da approached them, worry etched into his ageing features. 

"Drando, what calls you here so late?" Da asked the one with flowing ivory white hair. "Has there been some emergency, some rebellion?" 

"No, everything is under control, Anthony," The one known as Drando replied, his gravely voice heavy in its seriousness. His father's look of relief turned into one quickly of confusion when the men before him remained stockly formal. 

"To what then do I owe this visit, gentlemen?" Da asked, as Marcus watched on. This time it was not Drando who spoke, but the fair headed man to his left. 

"Anthony Flint, you are being charged with the following rimes against the Ministry: Desertion, treason and the murder of civilians. It is our orders to transport you to the Alkerzan holding cells immediately." Da had looked on in dazed disbelief as the man had blandly informed him of what was happening, and Marcus found himself frozen in shock. What was this man talking about?! Da was a war hero, everyone said so! Strangers would walk up to him on the street and shake his hand! 

"Drando, what is the meaning of this?" His father turned desperately back to the first man. "Surely this cannot be serious? You *know* that I could never, would never!" 

"We have the sworn testimonies of several Death Eaters of your betrayal. A court will decide whether they are devoid of truth or not." Da seemed to have expected the man to respond with warmth, and was obviously shocked at the cool tone used by the other man. 

"Drando, you must know this is preposterous! You of all people should know I am not capable of such atrocities!" 

"I thought I knew you, Anthony," The man replied coldly, before muttering a charm softly under his breath. A fine thread wrapped itself around Da's hands binding them tightly together. "You will not resist?" Drando asked, as a similar thread wrapped around Da's exposed ankles. Da shook his head mutely. 

"What about the child?" One of the other men asked, glancing over at Marcus who could only watch on in disbelief. 

"My wife is visiting her mother – she will not be home for several hours - surely you could leave someone here with him," Da spoke up, appealing yet again to Drando. This time the harsh features of the other man softened slightly, and he nodded in assent. 

"Smith, stay behind with the child until his mother returns, then meet us back at the Ministry." 

"No!" Marcus demanded as he rose to his feet, realising suddenly that they were going to take his Da away from him. "I want to go with Da!" 

"Marcus, be a good boy and stay with Mr Smith here," Da replied quietly. "Could you put Marcus to bed, Jeffrey?" The question was directed coldly at Mr Smith. "It is past his bedtime." Da looked to be about to say something more, but along with three of the other men, he suddenly disappeared. 

"Da!" Marcus cried, terror ridden eyes resting on the spot his father had been. This couldn't be happening! Why did those nasty men think Da was involved in those horrible things?! 

"Well, Marcus, I suppose we should prepare you for bed," Mr Smith said stiffly, awkward in the situation. Marcus stubbornly shook his head, glaring at the man who was partly responsible for taking his father from him. He settled himself down cross-legged on the spot Da had been on only moments before, chin up in defiance. 

"Come now, child - your bed is far more comfortable than the carpet," Mr Smith tried again. Again Marcus shook his head, biting his lip as it threatened to tremble uncontrollably. 

"Da puts me to bed," He spoke up, his voice wavering in its rebellion. He batted erratically at the few tears that had begun to well up, yet the determination that was coiled in his small frame never left. "Only Da." 

"But your father asked me to put you to bed, remember, Marcus?" Mr Smith tried softly, yet all it served to do was elect a low growl from the boy. Knowing when a battle was lost, and unwilling to use magic on a terrified child, the man flopped into a nearby chair, his eyes wearily trained on the boy. Marcus would give up, eventually. 

***** 

Hours later, his mother had found them both in the same positions, a stubborn child seemingly glued to an uncomfortable spot on the floor, a Ministry representative watching him with a gaze bordering on amazement. With a disdain laden glare aimed at the representative, she had swept Marcus into her arms, the tired boy yawning into her warm embrace. He had fallen asleep almost instantly when she placed him in his bed, sleep-slurred words and fragments of sentences about "Da" falling from his lips. 

It was only when she was convinced that his sleep was undisturbed by nightmares that she returned to the living room. She simply glared at the unsuspected man in her house, silently demanding an explanation for why her son was up so late and in such a position, and where her husband was. 

"Mr Flint has been arrested for Treason and other such crimes," the man spoke stiffly, rising from the seat he had been occupying. "He shall go -" 

"Do you know who my husband is?" she broke in with a stern quietness. 

"Ma'm, it doesn't matter who-" 

"My husband," she continued, ignoring the man. "My husband, was in charge of the aerial strike force against Voldemort." She took a perverse pleasure in the way using the forbidden name had the desired effect, as the man cringed visibly. "He was responsible for the saving of hundreds of lives, if not thousands. He single handily outwitted many opposition troops, continuously put himself in a position of personal threat to secure information that your Ministry needed." 

"You may believe that to be so, Ma'm" 

"Get out of my house," she ordered, her voice breaking slightly with pent up emotion. "I suggest you go hunt down those who were responsible for all the horrors of this war, Sir, instead of preying on the true heroes." Wordlessly, the man apparated. Her legs giving out underneath her, she collapsed to the floor, desperately trying to control her suddenly too rapid breathing. She raised a shaking hand to her mouth, pressing her fingers firmly against her lips in terror. This couldn't be happening, *how* could this be happening? After everything they had gone through, to come to this? How could they take her Anthony from her, so soon after she had got him back? 

***** 

There had been no trial. Marcus hadn't understood - his mother had said that Da would be cleared, that all evidence against him was weak and falsified. His mother had said Da would be coming home soon. 

Now she was saying that he would never be coming home again. 

He clung tightly to his mother's hand as they stepped out of the Knight Bus, an icy fear wrapping itself around him the moment his foot contacted with the ground. Shuddering, he huddled closer to his mother, who in the past few weeks had become as frozen as a winter chill. With Da gone, she had closed herself off completely, retreating somewhere that Marcus couldn't find her. 

"Mum, I don't feel so good," he whispered as they continued up the winding path colonnaded by tired weeping willows. His mother had warned him of the effects the place they were holding Da would have on him, that it would make him feel cold and bad. But she had also said that it would be the last time he would ever see Da, and to not go would be wrong. 

Not to see Da again, it seemed impossible. Even during the war Da had been able to spend weeks at a time at home, even if there were months between each visit. All this would be sorted out, Marcus knew that with absolute certainty. The war was over, normal would sweep in and tell these horrible people that Da was innocent, and that this wasn't how things were to be done now. Das belonged with their sons, not in some horrible prison, normal would tell them. 

By the time they had reached the large steel doors that served as the entrance to the prison, he was shaking uncontrollably, tremors racing through his small frame. Death and disillusionment radiated off this place like waves, and he felt like he was drowning in misplaced sorrow. Only his conviction that Da would be freed regardless of what his mother said was all that stopped him from pleading with her to take away from this horrible place. He growled quietly when they were met at the doors by Drando, and even his brilliant robes seemingly dulled by the pain that surrounded the place. 

"Lyinda! What did you bring the child for!" Drando demanded, his grim face a mixture of surprise and disgust as he took in the shivering boy. "Azkaban is no place for a child, how could you bring him here?" 

"Azkaban is no place for the innocent either, Drando," his mother replied coolly, seemingly oblivious to the effects Azkaban had on everyone else. "Yet you still put them here." 

"Your husband was found guilty," Drando replied tiredly. "The evidence -" He was interrupted by the harsh laugh from mother. 

"Evidence, what evidence? There was no trial to decide whether this evidence was factual, no jury to make a decision. A verdict usually requires some sort of process to reach that decision." 

"Your dislike for the decision does not justify bringing a *child* into this hell hole, Lyinda," Drando replied sternly. "What do you hope to accomplish with this, give the child nightmares for years to come?" 

"Oh, this will serve its purpose." Lyinda replied with deadly quietness. "Marcus will leave here, knowing to never trust or respect authority, that to put faith in those who do is to be naively stupid. He will learn a valuable lesson, that one does not need to play by the rules or what you have defined as right, because those who define them as such, do not follow or believe it themselves. He will learn the hypocritical nature of authority, Drando, and he will spit in its face." 

"You would destroy your son over this?" Drando asked, shocked. 

"I gave you my husband for *years*!" Lyinda seethed angrily. "And now, now that it is time for him to finally return to me, you are taking him from me again! You *dare* lecture me on what is ethically right? You have no idea yourself! Marcus will never make the mistake Anthony made. And Anthony *will* be redeemed." With that, she brushed past the man, dragging Marcus along behind her. 

Marcus bit back a sob as like a sea sponge, he soaked up the terror and coldness of this place. He didn't understand what his mother had been talking about, didn't know why they were keeping Da in this horrible, horrible place, why his mother had made him come ... 

The starkly bare corridors wove in never ending spirals, and it seemed like an aeon before they finally reached the room that his mother had been looking for. With a curt, cold nod at the two Ministry Guards who stood on either side of the entrance, she entered the room, Marcus trailing uncertainly behind her. The room was empty save for a chair near the center, and a single wooden bench that was pushed against the far right wall. It was to the bench that his mother led him. 

"I want you to pay close attention to what they have done to your father," she hissed in his ear, her fury barely constrained. Marcus looked up at his mother in stark and unbridled fear. He didn't understand, why was mother acting like this? She was so cold and harsh and so not how one was supposed to be now that everything was normal. 

"Mum?" He questioned, his voice trembling as he felt the loathing and hatred of the place close in on him. "Mum-mm, can we go now, please can we go now?" Silent tears began to fall as he felt himself being consumed by the surrounding darkness that seemed to mute everything good and true. "Please mum, I ...I don't like it here, please can we go home?" 

"Weak," his mother accused, glaring down at him, mindless of the sob it drew from the small boy. "You're father is about to be sentenced to hell, and you want to miss seeing him one last time because you feel cold?" 

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, closing his eyes tightly in an effort to lock all the hatred and emptiness out. "I'm sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry-" 

"Cut it out, Marcus," she sternly replied, as more Ministry officials entered the room. The comment was unnecessary however, as Marcus had stopped the moment he had seen who the officials were accompanying. 

"Da!" he cried, trying to launch himself at his father, but being held back by his mother. He looked up at her confused, why wouldn't she let him go to Da? Da was seated in the lone chair, his features ragged, his eyes firmly on the ground. 

"Anthony Mark Flint, you have been found guilty of Grand Treason, the conspiracy to murder and maim innocent civilians, and other war crimes," One of the officials read from a scroll. "For your crimes, you have been sentenced to the Dementors Kiss." 

"No!" Mother cried from beside him, rising to her feet. "You can't! He isn't supposed to be punished like *that*!" his mother erupted in fierce denial and shock. 

"Lyinda, it's all right," Da spoke up softly, for the first time since he had entered the room acknowledging his family. "Please, get Marcus out of here before it happens." Hazel eyes begged gently as his gaze rose from the floor and met with his wife's. Yet they were met with icy blue ones in return. 

"No," she replied hoarsely, choking back a sob. "Let Marcus see what they do to those who let themselves be dictated by morals, those who put misplaced trust in those who they have served diligently!" 

"Lyinda, no!" Da pleaded, eyes wide in surprise. "Marcus is too young, spare him this." 

"Like they are sparing you?" she shot back, as Marcus looked confusingly between his parents, trying to understand, needing to know what was going on. Why wasn't anyone telling him anything? "Let them perform their justice in front of a child, and *then* say that the punishment was a deserving one." 

His Da seemed unable to reply, obviously shocked at what his mother was saying. 

"The punishment will take place in a side room," one of the Ministers spoke up briskly, shooting a glance of disdain at his mother, as Da whispered a quiet "thank you," under his breath. "If you must," the Minister continued, "you may stay here until it is over, although I agree with Mr Flint - a child has no place being so close to a Dementor." 

"We will stay," she growled from beside him, ignoring how Da pleaded with her to leave again. What, what was a Dementor? And why did Da not want him around anymore? 

He watched as they dragged his father off into a nearby room, a wave of terror washing uncontrollably over him as the door to the room open briefly, fading slowly when it closed. With a fascinated horror he looked at the room Da had been led into. What was in there? Where was Da going? As if reading his mind, his mother spoke up. 

"They are about to kill your father, Marcus." She said, almost conversationally, calm all of a sudden. "How wonderfully justified." It took several precious moments, but the second the meaning behind her carefree words hit, he was on his feet, dashing towards the door they had lead Da through. He didn't stop to ponder why his mother burst into laughter as he tried to dodge one of the Ministers, who made a futile dive at him as he raced past. 

"Someone grab the child!" A voice rang out behind him, as murmurs rose from the startled officials. 

"Go on, Marcus! You can do it!" His mother countered in support, clapping her hands wildly. The door in reach, he thrust it open, only to collapse to his knees as he was met by a wall of hatred and despair. He sobbed painfully as he pushed himself to his feet. Da was in the room, terror fighting to break the calm facade he had in place. In front of Da was some horrible monstrosity that was clad entirely in black, its robes swirling around it like billowing storm clouds. 

"Da!" he cried, trying to take another step into the room, but finding the almost visible dark emotions to be practically a physical barrier. Noticing the intrusion for the first time, panic spread on Da's face. 

"Marcus, get out of here!" he desperately demanded, fighting suddenly against the grip the Dementor had on his arm. He cried out in pain as an iced agony raced up his arm and down his spine, neutralising the threat of any further physical resistance. Marcus watched on in horror, eyes wide as he found himself desperately wanting to obey Da, but finding himself unable to. This wasn't supposed to be happening! Where was normal?! 

"Don't! Not while the child is here, please!" Da turned his eyes from Marcus' and to the monster's, his pleas making as much impact as autumn leaves rendezvousing with the surface of an ice coated lake. 

"Da!" Marcus screamed hysterically, as the hooded face of the monster closed in on Da's, hiding most of Da from him. Body shaking, he forced himself to take one tiny step into the room, before collapsing into a jumbled heap on the harsh floor. His eyes connected wildly with Da's for a moment, the panic laced sorrow in Da's eyes causing a wave of pain to wash over Marcus that had nothing to do with the monster. 

And then, Da's face was gone, hidden by the cloak that hung over the Monster's head. He wanted to scream, to run and push the monster away from Da, but just as he thought he had mustered the strength to rise to his feet, this hostile and twisted world he had been dragged into seemed to crash all around him, blinding him in its hatred, freezing every part of him in its impersonal coldness. Silent cries fell from his lips, nothing more than muted sobs allowed to escape. The alarmed cries from behind him fell on ears that were defended to anything but the roaring horror that was thundered there. Hatred, despair, fear, loneliness, all flooded his senses until he knew of nothing else but them. If this was normal, then he preferred the horrors of the war, a small, unassulted part of his brain bitterly thought, before it too was crushed beneath the unbearable pain. 

When the soothing darkness came, he welcomed it lovingly. 

Mother would be there when he woke. 

***** 

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